


échappé

by the_dot



Series: you can't run from the shadow [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Also Lil is part of another story, But I'll probably never finish it, Gen, Magic, Unbeta'ed, Witch-in-training, Witchcraft, basically scratching the inside of a forearm in order to draw a magic symbol, there's like one very tiny thing that could be viewed as self-harm, there's probably more but it's late and i'm tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dot/pseuds/the_dot
Summary: (or: point of no return and also smelly things)In which there is possession, both consensual and not, and a girl gets supplies from a place that is possibly in another dimension.





	

**Author's Note:**

> what???? two things posted in the same month???  
> i'm just as surprised as you are

«Somehow, when you said  _ the tree _ , I didn’t think you meant an actual literal tree.»

She stares at it.  _ Tree  _ is really a generous word. It’s a gnarled, slightly overgrown twig, as most cypress trees are. An oddly L-shaped branch extends off to one side, as if waving someone across the path. She must still be thinking about her pre-calc homework, because her eyes are tracing strange symbols that aren’t there if she tries to focus on them.

«As opposed to an imaginary literal tree?» the shadow asks, and she has the extraordinary urge to slap it. Unfortunately, that’s impossible. As far as she knows.

«Someone could call the cops,» she thinks at it. «Someone probably  _ will _ call the cops. This area is composed entirely of rich retired white people and I didn’t dress to fit the category of people who wouldn’t make them suspicious.»

«Climb the damned tree.»

She  _ really  _ wishes she could slap it. She glances around one more time, grasps the strongest-looking bit of twig she can reach, and swings herself atop the strange branch.

Except the branch dissolves as her legs move over it, and the world goes topsy-turvy, and there’s an extremely uncomfortable moment where she thinks she’s going to lose her lunch as a feeling like doing somersaults in boiling water sweeps over her and the grey-pastels of Pacific Grove saturate and darken.

The next second, she’s standing on mahogany with gold-leaf symbols swirling out from where her boots touch, stopping when they reach glass cases filled with jewelry. A huge black cat sits on the counter, watching her with slitted gold eyes.

«I should have mentioned that,» the shadow says. «Sorry. Interdimensional travel is always hard for humans.»

It doesn’t  _ sound  _ sorry. Before she can ask what it means by  _ interdimensional travel _ , a girl’s head pokes up from behind one of the cases and scowls at her feet. “Are those boots non-marking?”

“Um.” She looks at her feet and wiggles her toes. “Probably not.”

“Take them off,” she demands, standing fully. Aina would get annoyed at being ordered around by someone that can’t be older than fifteen—her tawny brown cheeks still have baby fat, and she’s all gangly awkward limbs, like she hasn’t quite grown into them yet—but  _ something  _ in her jewel-blue eyes and the way she’s holding herself makes Aina’s skin prickle. “My mother will  _ kill _ me if her sigils are stained again.”

She scrambles to tug them off, trying not to fall down. Winding the laces around her fingers, she straightens and looks back at the girl, who looks considerably happier.

“Welcome to the Point,” she says. “I’m Lil. What’s your name?”

“Aina Ruiz.” She expects Lil to blink, like most people do, and say it several times with the expectation that she’ll correct them until they get it right. Instead, she nods and trots out from behind the case.

“What can I help you with?” Lil asks.

Aina digs the list the shadow had had her make (she hadn’t been entirely sure who’d been moving her hands there, and hadn’t  _ that _ been creepy) out of her pocket. Before she can open it, Lil has snatched it out of her hands and is scanning it as she walks toward a door covered in runes. The black cat jumps down with a heavy  _ thunk  _ and winds around her ankles.

“Here we go,” she says, unlocking it. “This reeks, so you can wait here if you want.”

The wave of utter stench is like a dead skunk that’s been baking in an Indian food truck, but Lil walks in like it’s nothing.

«Jesus Christ on a cracker,» she thinks. «Am I going to have to deal with this all the time?»

«...probably.»

She stares at the girl that’s disappearing among dark shelves, and follows, trying not to gag and hoping whatever’s making that smell isn’t on the floor. Lil smiles at her from atop a rolling ladder.

“You’re very brave,” she says. “My dad won’t come back here. He says it’s a death trap.”

She hops down with an armful of glass jars and herb bundles and goes over to a table with stacks of muslin squares and cheap canvas bags. “When did you start practicing?” At Aina’s surprised look, she snorts. “No self-respecting witch would have  _ run out _ of all this, and if they did they wouldn’t pick it all up at the same shop.”

«Damn,» the shadow says. «I was hoping she’d ignore that.» 

Aina shifts. “A week ago,” she admits.

Lil looks surprised. “Really? Who told you to come here?”

“A grimoire,” she says. Except she’s not trying to move her mouth. “It said this was the best place.”

« _ What. _ »

«She can’t know I exist,» the shadow hisses at her. Or she thinks it hisses. It’s hard to tell when she can barely tell it from her own thoughts. «If anyone finds out you’ve got a Shade in your eye, they’ll rip your mind apart so fast you won’t have time to  _ blink. _ »

«A—no, you know what, I’m not going to ask. Right now.»

Outside of her head, Lil was frowning. 

“I get that you’re new to this, but next time a book tells you to go somewhere,  _ maybe don’t do it _ ,” she says, continuing to wrap a glass jar so it won’t break. “Or at least check with an older wix. Where do you live? I can get you a list of registered teachers in your county.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aina hears herself say. “Thank you.”

«When we’re done here, we are going to talk about this and all of the things wrong with it,» she thinks. «Extensively.»

«I can hear all of your thoughts,» the shadow—shade—whatever—says. «I already know what you’re going to say.»

Lil finishes filling the bag with jars and herbs. “Here you go,” she says, holding it up. “You might want to use both hands.”

Aina takes it and staggers. «How am I going to carry this six miles on a bicycle?»

The—black thing—is silent, so she puts it down while paying Lil and putting her shoes back on.

“Go out the side door,” Lil says, her cat jumping up onto the table. She runs a hand over its back. “You’ll be dropped wherever you came in.”

Aina’s not entirely sure what to say, so she thanks Lil quickly and goes. It’s marginally less terrible this time—whether because she was prepared or something else—but she still nearly drops the bag.

The black thing stays quiet the entire ten minute walk back to where Aina had left her bike, which is probably a record for it. By the time she reaches the parking lot, all the spaces are empty and her arms feel like they’re going to fall off.

«Can you really not carry it?»

And there goes the record. 

She would be more annoyed if it didn’t sound genuinely curious. «You can’t feel it?»

«No,» it says. «I can read your emotions. Sort of. Definitely what you think at me. But that’s it.»

«Huh.» She puts down the bag, wincing as the jars rattle, and stretches her arms before unlocking her bike. She can tell it’s trying to say something else, but she ignores it in favor of forcing her fingers steady as she twists the key.

At last, it asks, «Do you want me to help?»

She stops, gaze fixed on the bag she was just about to pick up. «What?»

«Help you get that home. Not personally,» it hurries to add. «But there are. Spells. That I can do for you.»

«Does it involve—what you did at the Point?»

«A little,» it admits. «Not really. And I promise to let go after.»

She hesitates. Her instincts are screaming that it’s a bad idea, but also, it’s  _ really heavy. _ And at least it’s asking this time.

«Fine.» She takes a deep breath. «What do I need to do?»

Nothing, it seems, as her hands are moving of their own accord, shucking her heavy jacket over the bag and chipped purple-polished nails scratching symbols on the soft skin on the inside of her forearm just hard enough to sting.

«This would be easier if you had a pen,» it says. The ache in her arms is gone, and her hands move to snap a twig from a nearby bush. Her—its— _ their _ hands hold it like a pencil and trace more symbols onto the jacket.

When the twig stops moving, she stands cautiously and flexes her fingers, the twig falling to the ground. «Are you done?»

«Yes.» It seems more subdued than it had been, and she gets the feeling that it’s trying to say something again, but again doesn’t know how. Instead of ignoring it, she tilts her head back and shuts her eyes, listening to the ocean rumble four blocks away.

Her chest feels heavy heavy, and for a second she thinks she's going to cry.

_ What the—? _

«I’m sorry,» the shadow says, pulsing at the edge of her vision like it hasn’t since it came into her eye, and her chest throbs again. «I don’t know how else to show you.»

What—

Oh.  _ Oh. _

«You’re showing me your...emotions,» she guesses. «Like you can feel mine.»

No answer. She hesitates, then plows on.

«It’s not okay what you did,» she tells it, and the miserable feeling deepens. «But I forgive you.»

The waving fingers of darkness pause, then recede, becoming the faintest of faint lines, and she breathes in the crisp ocean air. 

It doesn’t seem like the shadow is going to say anything anytime soon, so she pulls her jacket back on and looks at the bag she’d taken from the Point. It’s barely bigger than her fist, a twentieth of what it was, and just as light. After putting it in the basket, she pauses and looks at the twig she’d dropped.

A tiny spray of once-white flowers spring off the end, stained blacker than ink. The leaves are now a dark, pine green. She picks it up and sniffs it; it smells like ice and cinnamon. On impulse, she tucks it into one of the breast pockets of her jacket and swings herself atop her bicycle.

For once, she doesn't care if the light happiness she's feeling is her or her shadow.

**Author's Note:**

>  _this is twice as long as the other one. what is happening._  
>  find me on tumblr at the-dot or dottywords  
> edit: fixed some mixups and edited other things to make sense bc i usually write in past tense l o l (*cries softly*)


End file.
